"Where is La Duprey?" Paul asked.
"You know where the little fishing boats stay?" Phillip asked. "On the west side of Cul-de-Sac du Marin, just inside the mouth?"
"That little village that's behind all the reefs?" Paul asked.
"That's it," Phillip said. "It's a popular spot for the guys who smuggle booze and cigarettes between here and St. Lucia. There's lots of shoreline, and threading your way through the reefs at night's tricky, unless you know the way. Did your agent get a name, Sandrine?"
She nodded. "Charlie Caruthers. He is often in La Duprey; a regular customer in a little bar which belongs to the cousin of his wife."
"And the man who just took over the Pink Pussycat is from St. Lucia," Connie said. "That's not likely to be a coincidence. Any chance your agent could ask Caruthers a few questions?"
Sandrine shook her head. "It would not be good. The agent is there always; he observes and reports. Asking questions would make people notice him."
"I could ask Clarence for a favor," Phillip said. "One of his people could question Caruthers."
"Caruthers will have his guard up, I'd think," Paul said. "Won't that tip our hand?"
"Not necessarily," Phillip said. "He could be drugged and questioned, then left unconscious in an alley — just another victim of muggers. There are some dangerous places in Martinique. He wouldn't remember anything that happened to him."
"I like it," Connie said. "But suppose he's already gone back to St. Lucia?"
Phillip smiled. "St. Lucia may be even more dangerous for him than Martinique."
"Do it," Connie said. "Let's see what he knows."
Phillip nodded and stepped away from the table, making a short call on his cellphone. He sat down again. "They'll do it as soon as they can find him. Speaking of St. Lucia, I talked to Cedric a few minutes ago. He did a quick check on Griffin. Without a first name, he couldn't be sure, but there's an ex-pat American named Reuben Griffin who's a possibility. Cedric says he's clean, as far as they know. He's an entrepreneur with his fingers in several hospitality businesses — a couple of guest houses, an island tour operation, a night club, an excursion boat that takes cruise ship visitors snorkeling."
"He sounds promising," Paul said.
"Yes, he does," Phillip said. "He's been on the island a long time. Married to a local woman, pillar of the community. Cedric's going to dig a little deeper and get back to me. Did you reach Luke?"
"Connie and I talked to him," Paul said. "He hadn't picked up that the Pink Pussycat was open again. He'll check it out, but he wasn't sure he'd get much more than what Connie's cousin gave us. He's scared to follow up too aggressively. Luke's in awe of our source, and relieved to have some fresh information from him."
"Why relieved?" Phillip asked.
Paul related the tale of Luke sending the detectives to question Gator Jaw Ryan. "That was right after Contreras told us that one of Montalba's minions went to see Ryan. Luke was afraid he'd blown it because he hadn't heard anything from us for a while after he did that. Contreras was pissed about it, all right, so we went quiet on Luke for a couple of days. Not that we had much to tell him, but it served to remind him to be careful about that kind of thing."
"I can't think of anything else we need to do right now," Phillip said. "Until we get word back from some of the feelers we've put out, I guess we're stuck."
"There's one question that's bothering me," Connie said. "How are we going to get Marie's feedback on her time with Marcia? We'll be tied up with Marcia ourselves, once they get back."
"Glad you mentioned that," Phillip said. "Clarence had a short text from Marie. She and Marcia are going touring again tomorrow. Marie will leave a report on my voicemail sometime tonight, after she drops Marcia off. Marcia claims to be fronting for some drug dealer looking for access to the European market, but Marie said for now, we should play along with the pretense that Marcia's a ghostwriter. She'll keep Marcia busy tomorrow while we work out a plan."
"Wow!" Connie said. "I think we should let this all rest for a while. There's no point in obsessing over it until we get Marie's full report. We might get so wound up that we give ourselves away to Marcia."
"Good point," Phillip said.
"Let's go back to the boat, Paul. Should we plan on dinner together?" Connie asked. "I guess Marie's probably going to drop Marcia here."
"That's right," Phillip said.
"Before you go," Sandrine said, coming back to the veranda, "Someone has looked in the database about Beverly Lennox."
"I'm not surprised, since we heard that Griffin is looking for her in Miami," Connie said. "Can you find out who checked?"
Sandrine shook her head. "Not easily. There are many people with some access — the internet cafés which handle clearance may be able to do this. I am not so sure. I have asked our network administrator; she will try to discover which terminal originated the request, but she is not sure it will work. Even so, there could be many people with access to each terminal."
"That's something else for Clarence's people to ask this Charlie Caruthers, then," Phillip said. "I'll let him know."
"See you for dinner, then?" Paul asked.
"Sure," Phillip said. "Drinks on the veranda around sunset. Marie should have Marcia back by then. Come on back when you're ready. If they get back before you do, we'll call you."
"Good," Connie said. "I'm going for a swim and work off some of my nervous energy. Paul?"
"Sounds good, skipper."
Reuben Griffin sat in the leather swivel chair, his feet on the big desk that was in the office when he took over the Pink Pussycat. The office was dirty; the club itself wasn't any too clean. Once he got things running smoothly, he'd get the place redecorated. It had promise. Some of the women who had worked the club for clients before had heard it was open again. They'd started coming around, picking up men, or bringing 'dates' they'd found elsewhere.
The first few women were tentative, but Reuben made them welcome and explained that he'd give them a free ride for a while. The word had spread. There were a number of women working the patrons during the busy periods now.
Maybe half of them had been here before LaRosa killed himself. The others were fresh, bringing in new trade. Business was booming. He needed a new manager; he'd thought about promoting the bartender, but the man had a shifty look about him. Reuben didn't trust him yet. Time would tell.
Meanwhile, he still had not managed to get a line on the Lennox broad that his new boss was so hot to find. The scar-faced man made no effort to hide his irritation with Reuben over that. Reuben had at first misread the man's polite, formal demeanor, but the last message from him had been clear.
The man wanted Beverly Lennox found, or Reuben's ten-year-old son would pay the price. Reuben felt a chill. The threat had been delivered via an emailed audio clip, and the man's tone had been as smooth and calm as if he'd been discussing the weather. If Reuben beat the man's vague deadline of 'a few days,' the boy would be spared. He shivered at the recollection of the man's voice. Taking a series of deep breaths to steady himself, Reuben picked up the burner cellphone and called Charlie Caruthers.
"Hey, mon," Caruthers answered.
"You back in St. Lucia?" Reuben asked.
"No, mon. Still in Martinique. You get the stuff I sent you 'bout them people?"
"Yeah." Reuben had seen the message, but he'd been too worried about the other to read it. "Good work. I got something else for you, while you're in Martinique. You get the picture I sent you of the broad?"
"Whoee! Yeah, mon. Tha's one hot mama; look like a centerfold. Who is she?"
"Beverly Lennox."
"Damn, Reuben! You gettin' some of that, ain'tcha? Don' worry. I ain't tellin' my sister, but when you done, you give me a shot at her, okay?"
"I've never met her, Charlie. Swear to God."
"Uh-huh. I don' believe you, mon. Where you got that picture, you ain't wit' her? It say 'Come see me at the Pink Pussycat' right on it, right across her h
ot spot."
"I found it in the files here, Charlie. We gotta find her, or Bobbie's gonna get hurt, you understand me?"
"Bobbie? My nephew? What he got to do wit' this, Reuben?"
"Charlie, I don't have time to explain all this to you. We gotta find that broad, and quick."
"I done tol' you she in Miami, mon. What you want from me?"
"I think somebody fed us some shit, Charlie."
"'Bout her bein' in Miami, you mean?"
"Yeah. No sign of her here. She may still be in Martinique, or she may have gone somewhere else. She might be using a different name. That's why I sent the picture. Did you get the one that shows just her face?"
"Yeah, but who gonna look at that? I mean, she got a pretty face, but it ain't her bes' feature, mon."
"Charlie, here's what I want you to do. Print out the picture of her face, okay?"
"Okay."
"Then make the rounds of those tittie bars and pickup joints you hang out in around Fort-de-France and the resorts, you hear me?"
"Yeah, mon. You want me to show them pictures 'round, see if anybody seen her?"
"Just the one of her face, Charlie."
"Why you send the other one, then?"
"Incentive."
"Huh? Say what, mon?"
"Incentive. That's what you get if you find her."
"No shit, Reuben? Finders, keepers, like?"
"Until the boss tells me what to do with her, she's all yours, but don't mess her up. Keep her looking good, you understand?"
"Yeah, mon. I'm on it. You got anything else? Time's a wastin'."
"Good hunting. You call me the minute you find her, you hear?"
"Yeah, mon. I gotta go."
22
Charlie Caruthers sipped at his beer in the dim light of yet another strip club, watching the dancer. He'd made an evening of it, but he'd had no luck finding anyone who recognized the picture of Beverly Lennox. He took a sip of his beer, nursing it, watching the tall, leggy blonde at the bar. She was on the make, dressed to show off her figure, and it was stunning. She caught his eye and smiled. He raised his glass toward her and nodded.
His eyes were glued to her as she sauntered across the club toward him. He didn't figure he was going to find Lennox tonight; he might as well have a little fun. He pointed at the chair on the other side of his table, but she smiled again and shook her head. She squeezed in beside him on the upholstered seat that ran along the wall, her skirt riding up, showing a lot of thigh. Nice thigh, too, he noticed.
She snuggled against him, her left hand running up his leg, stopping just a little short of where he'd hoped. She looked up at him, batting her eyes.
"I hear you're looking for a girl," she said, her voice soft, her lips brushing his ear. "That true?"
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe I found one."
"Mm-hmm," she said, her hand moving again. "But not the one in the picture you've been showing around. She someone special to you?"
He shook his head. "Not really. A friend of mine said I should look her up if I was in the area."
"Oh," she said. "I might know someone who could find her for you, if you want. My friend gets around more than I do."
"Yeah? Can I meet your friend?"
"My friend's busy right now. She's with someone, maybe for the whole night. But we can go to our place and wait for her to come back. I'm lonely tonight. Keep me company until she comes home?"
"Sure, I can do that. What are you drinking?"
"I don't need a drink. Take me home. Maybe we can find something to do while we wait. Help a girl out?"
"Sure thing," Caruthers said, putting a 10 euro note on the table and anchoring it with his beer bottle. "Let's go!"
She gave him a kiss on the cheek. Sliding sideways on the vinyl-covered bench, she stood up, smiling. She took his hand and led him outside. A taxi was parked at the curb, the driver lounging against it, smoking. He dropped his cigarette and perked up, opening the rear door and helping the woman in. Caruthers followed, and the driver closed the door. As he slid behind the wheel, the driver turned and asked for an address. The woman answered in rapid Creole French and turned her attention to Caruthers.
Hiking up her already short skirt, she slithered onto Caruthers's lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him an aggressive kiss. He felt her right hand caressing his neck. The collection of rings she wore was cold against his hot flesh. There was a slight tingling sensation as she moved her hand, and then there was a flash of heat on the side of his neck.
Acting on instinct, he shoved her away and opened his eyes. His vision swam; he felt dizzy. "What … " he heard his voice as if from afar; then he felt warm all over. He relaxed, letting himself go, lost in her eyes and her smile as she murmured something reassuring.
Tiberius Jones glanced up from the book in his hands as the front door crashed open.
"I t'ink somebody come to visit," he called to his brother, who was in the kitchen fetching a beer.
Tiberius put his book on the table beside his chair and ran his eyes over the muscular, heavily tattooed white man who held a silenced pistol pointed at him.
"Who is it?" Lucilius asked, still in the kitchen.
"Shut up, asshole," the man with the pistol said, stepping to the side as another man came in behind him.
Tiberius grinned at him. "I'm Tiberius; my little brother in the kitchen, he Lucilius. You want a beer?"
"I told you to shut up," the man with the pistol said.
"Oh," Tiberius said. "When you said 'asshole,' I thought you was talkin' to your frien'. Or mebbe jus' to yo'self, mon. You call me asshole?"
"Shut up!"
"Don' be that way, mon. Me an' Lucilius, we pretty easy goin'. No need to get ugly."
The man reversed his grip on the pistol and swung it at Tiberius. Still grinning, Tiberius moved his head just enough to avoid being hit. With a smooth motion, he snatched the pistol from the man's hand and swatted him aside.
The second man was struggling to pull his own pistol from his waistband when Lucilius appeared and grabbed his wrist. His right arm trapped, the man swung with his left, landing a solid blow on Lucilius's chin.
"You hit hard for such a little mon," Lucilius said, unfazed. He pulled the man's right hand up. The man's pants ripped as his pistol came clear. Lucilius took it from him and slammed him against the wall.
"What you boys want?" Tiberius asked as he studied the silenced semiautomatic pistol in his hand. He pointed it at the floor between the tattooed man's feet and pulled the trigger. The pistol coughed and the hardwood floor splintered. Tiberius laughed at the way the man flinched.
"Aw, Tiberius," his brother said. "There go the damage deposit, mon. You bettah give that back to the mon befo' you hurt somebody."
Tiberius looked up and nodded. He released the magazine from the pistol and put it in his pocket. Working the slide, he ejected the round in the chamber and handed the pistol back to the tattooed man.
Lucilius pointed the pistol he held at the man slumped against the wall. "My brother asked you a question. What you doin' here?"
The man blinked hard and swallowed. "We're supposed to pick you up and take you to meet somebody."
Lucilius and Tiberius exchanged glances. "We been expectin' you," Lucilius said, after a few seconds. "Why you didn't jus' say so? We ready to go." He handed the pistol back to the man. "Put that away. No need fo' guns. We come wit' you, no problem."
"You boys got a car?" Tiberius asked, handing the tattooed man the magazine for his pistol.
"Yeah," the man said, frowning and looking at his companion. He rammed the magazine into his pistol and worked the slide, chambering a round. He studied Tiberius for a moment, then shrugged and stuck the pistol in his waistband. "Outside at the curb."
"Let's go, then," Tiberius said, rising from his chair. He draped a big arm over the tattooed man's shoulders. "But firs', you fellas got names?"
The puzzled men traded looks. Shrugging again, the tatto
oed one said, "I'm Joe. He's Bill."
"Pleased to meet you," Lucilius said. "Now let's get movin'. Time's wastin'." Lucilius turned and led the way through the door, Bill following.
Tiberius motioned for Joe to precede him. When Joe hesitated, Tiberius said, "It's okay. I jus' need to lock up."
He nodded, smiling, and Joe walked out, pausing on the porch while Tiberius came out and locked the door.
"Bad neighborhood," Tiberius said. "People always stealin' stuff, you don' lock the do'."
Montalba shook his head, frustrated at the most recent email from Reuben Griffin. Griffin had been unable to locate Beverly Lennox in Miami and had ordered Charlie Caruthers to look for her in Martinique. According to Griffin, Caruthers had contacts in most of the nightclubs and bars in the southern part of the island. He was armed with a publicity photo of Lennox and was showing it around the places where Lennox might ply her trade.
Reminding himself that Lennox wasn't critical to his immediate plans, Montalba put that problem aside. Griffin was doing well enough with his main mission of bringing order to the distribution network in the southeast.
The news from Graciella was more heartening. Montalba smiled at the thought of her passing as a travel writer. She was living in the midst of the whole Barrera/Berger operation, and they were none the wiser. Working through this Marie LaCroix, she would be able to keep her true identity from Barrera right through the negotiations. And negotiations should begin soon. Graciella was expecting that tomorrow, she would be able to set up a meeting for him with Barrera. That meant he'd probably meet the woman the day after tomorrow.
He worried that he had no leverage over Barrera and Berger. He'd reconsidered his idea that the Jones brothers might make good hostages. They weren't closely enough connected to either of the principals. Putting himself in Berger's or Barrera's position, he knew that he'd consider them expendable. They were just cousins of one of Barrera's minions, after all.
Still, he wanted to question them. Somehow, they had discovered not only his existence, but his relationship to Graciella. He'd soon be able to do that, based on the latest from Delaney. SpecCorp had captured the two of them and had them en route to Puerto Rico on a private plane. He needed to call Delaney and arrange a handoff.
An Easy Sail_A Connie Barrera Thriller_The 8th Novel in the Series_Mystery and Adventure in Florida and the Caribbean Page 17